The Real Valois Heiress

I was in the middle of a video conference, laying out a cross-border merger strategy, when my phone lit up. My sister's name flashed across the screen—again and again.

I held up a finger, muting the call. As soon as I answered, I heard it: shaky, muffled sobs.

"Seraphina…" Her voice was broken, barely a whisper. "They gave my exchange spot away."

I didn't think. I grabbed my keys, bolted to the garage, and floored it. I might've run a red light. Or three.

When I got to the administration office, I found her curled in a corner, her uniform sleeves stained with tears. And there she was—a girl with cotton-candy pink hair, jabbing her finger toward my sister's forehead.

"You think you can compete with me? Seriously?" She smirked, wristwatch glinting under the harsh lights. "I'm Tiffany Valois. My father owns half of New York."

She tossed her hair, a diamond necklace sparkling at her throat. "He just donated a whole lab building to this school. What've you got? Good grades?" She laughed, sharp and cold.

A professor stood nearby, adjusting his glasses awkwardly. "Miss Valois, perhaps we should consider…" But he trailed off as he folded what looked like an application form and slipped it right into her designer bag. "The Valois family has been… very generous."

My hand trembled. Just a little. I forced it still.

The Valois family? Our family?

Since when did Dad have another daughter?

I slipped into the stairwell, scrolled to the top of my contacts, and hit call. He answered on the second ring, the familiar scratch of his fountain pen in the background.

"Sweetheart, what a nice surpri—"

"Dad." My voice came out cold, steady. "When exactly did you have a love child behind Mom's back?"

"What in the world?" Alistair Valois's laugh was warm, familiar, laced with disbelief. "Seraphina, are you joking? I have two daughters. You and Sophia. That's it."

No hesitation. No nervous tells. Just Dad—steady as always.

I breathed out slowly, some of the tension easing from my shoulders.

Everyone in New York's high society knew Alistair Valois was the gold standard of loyalty. Thirty years married to my mother, and not a single whisper of scandal. Not one.

"Okay," I said coolly before ending the call. My eyes locked back on Pink Hair. Tiffany.

She was draped in labels—head to toe—but carried them like cheap knockoffs.

I walked over, calm on the surface. "So you're a Valois heir?"

She turned, eyes rolling. "Here to stick up for the little crybaby?" She crossed her arms, smug. "Yeah. I'm Tiffany Valois. Got a problem with that?"